


Kinloch Hold will Fuck You Up

by Sanguinifex (Eros_Scribens)



Series: The Blighted Blight + Two Poorly Adjusted Elves [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Child Neglect, Dalish Surana, Dragon Age Meta, Kidfic, Magebane, Templars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 16:31:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11421819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eros_Scribens/pseuds/Sanguinifex
Summary: Alim Surana's backstory, up until the game's Magi Origin. I always wanted my Surana to be Dalish, and the game lets you say Surana is from "near Lothering," so now he's from a Dalish clan near Lothering.Fic will update as chapters are commissioned or when I finish IOE and the longfic about the Magisters Sidereal that's planned for after IOE.





	Kinloch Hold will Fuck You Up

**Author's Note:**

> The current "Chapter 1" is probably going to be Chapter 3, eventually. Tags to be added as I work on the rest of this, eventually.

Alim sat draped over the counter of the market stall, watching the flies nose at the closed lid of the milk barrel, a few inches from his face. Two had already drowned in the water the barrel sat in to keep it cool. Alim wished he could get in the water instead, flies and all. It was very hot out. On his left, Mama haggled with a shemlen woman about eggs. He was supposed to be learning how to speak like shemlen, but so far he had only learned a few words, like milk, eggs, and various kinds of money. Shemlen always spoke really fast.

The woman paid for her eggs and left, and Mama pulled gently on one of his braids to get his attention. For some reason, grownups thought that if you were looking away from them, you did not know they were there.

“Alim, you’re supposed to be paying attention! You’re old enough you should be able to watch the stall on your own, but you can’t if you can’t speak to shemlen.”

“Why can’t Neri do it?” Neri was only eight springs, but the shemlen liked her better, anyway, and she liked to play with the coins.

“You’re older.”

Alim sighed, and smooshed his face into the wooden countertop.

“If you don’t pay attention, you’re not getting a treat later.”

Alim sat up as straight as he could.

 

He had learned two new words. “Barter,” and “summersquash.” Barter meant that you traded a summersquash for eggs. A summersquash was some kind of green vegetable. Because he had paid attention enough to learn these, he had gotten a treat. He got treats for helping at the market, most weeks. Mama had bought two sugar scones, one for him and one for Neri. They ate as they walked back towards camp, while mama led the goat, which carried the empty milk barrel and egg baskets.

And then a goose came out of nowhere and stole his scone.

It wasn’t fair! He had paid attention for hours! Drat that goose! He began to cry, and then there was purple light, and then there was no more goose.

Mama was pulling him and Neri into an alley, running behind houses. Alim tripped and nearly fell on the strange ground. He was still crying.

“Mama, where’s the goat?” asked Neri.

“Sssh! We’ll get the goat later. Right now we have to get away.”

“Why?”

“I saw a bad shemlen. They steal little boys and girls who aren’t quiet, and eat them.”

Alim knew it was a lie. Was it the goose? He had done something to the goose, and now the shemlen would hurt him for hurting the goose. Or something. Maybe just make him pay for the goose. But he had no money. How much did a goose cost? Maybe the whole clan did not have enough money. Weren’t they basically stealing by running away? But then he tripped over something, again, and Mama snapped that they needed to hurry and he was much too big to carry, and he focused on the ground ahead and that only.

They stopped only when they reached the end of the houses. Mama made them wait while she checked for “bad shemlen,” then said the bad shemlen were not there and they needed to run as fast as they could to the woods.  Alim could see the woods, a smudge before them. He ran towards it.

By the time they got to the trees, Neri was crying, too. Mama finally allowed them to walk.

“Do the shemlen want to kill me because of the goose?” Alim asked.

“It’s not about the goose. It’s because you used magic.”

“Oh.”

It was not the most eloquent response. Alim was too overwhelmed by several serious things. He had magic! That was what using magic felt like. It was silly, that he had done it and hadn’t even realized! And he had used magic on the goose. That was bad. Shemlen stole mages. The stories said so. That was why Mama was so worried. The shemlen would be looking for them. Alim began crying again.

“It will be fine. Tomorrow, we’ll move somewhere where no one knows you have magic. We just need a horse or an ox to pull our aravel, because we don’t have halla. We can sell a few goats to get one.”

“‘Barter?’” asked Alim, using his new word.

“Yes, ‘barter.’ But also, I still have the money from today. It wasn’t on the goat.”

 

When Mama told the other grownups that Alim had magic, they started yelling a lot. Alim hid inside the aravel and focused on who was doing what.

“The Templars will kill all of us!” said Uncle Dor’Assan. “I don’t want to, but maybe we should give him up, and hope Neri gets magic, later, or the child after.” Mama was pregnant. She had told Alim a few weeks ago, when he had guessed, but it would not be born till winter.

“If we can get away, we should,” said Mama. “He could be keeper, one day! And he is my child. I am not just ‘giving up’ my child.”

“Can horses even pull aravels?” asked Aunt Dor’Mi.

“We’ll have to find out,” said Mama, grimly.

“Guess I’m buying a horse,” said Uncle Dor’Assan. “Or an ox. An ox would be better. Whichever we can afford.”

“We should give him the mage-mark,” said Uncle Tarfen. “He’s young, and I’m no Keeper, but we don’t know if the shemlen will find him. There aren’t many elves in this town. If he gets out later and finds the People, if he has the mark they’ll know not to kill him.”

“Is it safe? Can he even keep still enough?” asked Aunt Adahl.

“If we give him shemlen ‘whiskey’ and use _da’adahl helani,_ he’ll probably stay still. It’s only a few lines. A keeper could make it look better, but all that’s really needed is a wound and ink rubbed in it. It just needs to be recognizable.”

Alim did not know what a mage-mark was. It sounded like vallaslin. Maybe having magic meant you grew up faster. Still, when mama handed him a cup of vile-smelling stuff mixed with honey and cream and told him to drink it, he did, even though it burned. All of it. Then it made him go all floppy, and Uncle Tarfen was there, and his face hurt a lot but he was too floppy to move, or even really care.

 

The Templars found them the next morning. Dor’Assan had been reported by multiple people for trying to buy draft animals. Revi Surana stood before half a dozen men in platemail, between them and her son.

“You cannot have him. By the treaty of Tenasir, the Chantry has no authority over mages in Dalish clans.” Not that Templars usually cared, but it was worth a try.

“Common law says that this camp is an alienage. Any place more than ten elves live together for five years is an alienage. Give up the mage, or we’ll do what we have to do to get him.”

Revi did not know if this was true or not. Still, she could do nothing against six armored men. She had two other children to think of, Neri and the one yet to be born. She stepped aside, and forced herself not to cry, yet.

“It’s not so bad,” said one of the shemlen. She recognized his voice; he guarded the market, and bought milk from her, sometimes. “Mages live in a tower, and they get food and clothes and learn how to use their magic.”

“He would have had all that with us,” said Revi. Except for the tower, anyway. Who needed a tower? Shemlen, maybe.

“It’s the law. I’m sorry. He seemed like a good kid.”

“What did you blighted heathens _do_ to his face?” yelled the captain, coming out of the aravel, carrying Alim like a sack of turnips. Alim still seemed drunk; perhaps he was. That had been a lot of drink for a child. The four-pointed star on Alim’s left cheek looked like…well, about what might be expected from a fresh amateur tattoo. “If I had my way, we’d take the rest of the kids, raise ’em all in the Chantry. Teach ’em not to do superstitious foolery like this. And the Orlesians say _we’re_ barbaric.”

“He gets a bit pious,” said the other templar.

And Alim was being taken by these people. _Mythal All-Mother, keep him safe, for I cannot. Ghilan’nain, guide him back to me someday._

She cried only after she had watched them go.

 

The wagoner, Bran, had been quite alarmed when the Templar asked him to help transport a mage to the Circle tower. Mages were dangerous. Then he saw the mage in question.

“That’s smaller than I thought.”

“Not ten feet tall and breathing fire?”

“If you put it that way.” Maker, the boy? girl? looked about five stone, maybe a bit more if you included the handcuffs. He had not known handcuffs came that small. But the kid had an ugly wound of some sort on its face, so maybe it had tried to do blood magic or something.

“They start out as kids, like this, touched by the Maker,” said the Templar. “Then they grow up, and most of them turn into perfectly nice mages you never hear about, and a few turn into maleficars or apostates. A grown mage is dangerous, but the little ones are pretty easy to handle, once you get them calmed down.”

“It won’t hurt my cart, or anything?”

“He’s drugged, right now. About as much magic as the ox pulling your cart, on that stuff. He won’t be any trouble. You’ll get paid for bringing us to the Tower, and all you’ll have to do, out of the usual, is stop a little more often when the kid needs the bathroom.”

Bran considered it. “All right. But if he sets my cart on fire, or anything, the Chantry’s paying for it.”

It was a long way to the north end of Lake Calenhad. The Templar and the mage sat at the back of the cart, under the oilcloth stretched across the tall sides of the cart to protect the cargo from the weather. The boy was a redhead, and would have burned badly, otherwise.

True to the Templar’s word, the boy was drugged and quiet. Every several hours, between doses, he would start to take an interest in his surroundings, but then an hour or so later the Templar would get out a medicine bottle and dose the kid again. At inns, at night, the Templar would lead the sleepy, stumbling boy inside and try to coax him to eat a bowl of stew; he would not eat very much. The kid probably would not starve before they got to the Tower, but he already seemed to be losing weight. His hair had been in the same matted braids since the first morning—some elf thing, letting boys’ hair grow out like that—but neither man knew how to care for it, so the matter was dropped after a few sentences on the third day.

Several days in, the mage was in such a sorry state that Bran could not help but pity him. It was the last hour or so before his next dose, so he was awake, and picking at a loose thread in one of the sacks of wheat for something to do. Might as well occupy the kid, before he ended up opening the sack and making a mess.

“He still can’t do magic right now, can he?” Bran asked the Templar.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Since he’s properly awake, right now, I thought I might let him ‘help’ drive the cart. He looks bored out of his mind.”

“I’m not sure…Oh, Void, why not?”

It turned out the kid did not speak Trade. Nor Orlesian, really, though he understood a few more words of it. Maybe the kid’s family were traders from somewhere, passing through Lothering. Used magic by accident right in the market, the Templar had said. ‘Helping’ drive the cart was out, then, though he did seem to like being uncuffed and getting to sit on the driving bench. Not much surprise there. Funny, though; the boy didn’t want to look at the land around them, even when Bran pointed out a herd of cows (the boy knew the word ‘cow’) or a landmark tree. He just pressed his face up close to the sides of the cart, tracing the wood-grain with his fingers. Odd kid. Or maybe it was just the stuff the Templar was giving him.

After a while, the Templar had to give him more of the stuff, so the kid had to get back into the cart so as not to fall off the bench. In the evening, the Templar put the cuffs on again to take him into the inn. The next day it rained, so they kept the kid under the oilcloth for fear he would take ill, and then the day after that, they reached the north docks of Lake Calenhad.

Bran spent the day selling sacks of wheat and finding cargo to replace them, for the road up to Denerim. He settled for several crates of zucchini. That evening, the Templar came back (alone of course) and paid him for his trouble, and then he never saw the man again.

 

Templars really needed to be taught how to care for a child, thought Wynne. Most of them did not seem to deliberately mistreat children, and this was no exception, but every few months they would bring in a child like this one, that had been given far too much magebane and barely cared for at all on the road to make up for it. This boy had had to be carried in, barely conscious from drugs and obviously starved and dehydrated, and not much could be done about the latter two problems until he slept off the first one. She had gotten a few sips of water mixed with honey and salt into him, but he had been too out of it for anything more.

All mages had files kept about them, and this boy would be no exception. Wynne started the intake report. Date: 12 August, 9:21 Dragon. Name: She could fill that in after the boy woke up. Age: Again, unknown, but her examination had shown that he must be ten or eleven, from his teeth. Sex: male. Race: elven. Place of origin: Lothering, Ferelden. Physical description: Red hair, pale skin, tattoo of a four-pointed star on the left cheek. Condition: moderately neglected but stable, not obviously contagiously ill.

He would still be quarantined for two weeks, anyway. All new mages and transfers were. Mages were taken from the outside world and kept in isolated populations from a very young age, and often were never exposed to most childhood diseases. An outbreak of something like chickenpox in a Circle tower would affect as many adult mages as young apprentices, and sometimes fatally. It was Wynne’s job to try to prevent such outbreaks from happening.

She looked at the boy again. That star on his face—it never ceased to amaze her, the superstitions people had about mages, or what they did to them, out there. She had seen stranger and treated it, but only a handful of times. A good thing he was here, now, where no one would mutilate him further. If the wound were fresh, she could heal it and draw the ink out, but it had been healing on its own for a couple weeks now. All she could do about it was stop the infection and speed the natural recovery. At least the amount of magebane he had been on had probably prevented him from really feeling it, on the journey here.

A pity about his hair. It had come out of what had once been braids and gotten all matted; she had to cut it just to be able to wash it. No one had bathed the child in all that time on the road. She had managed to get him into a tub and scrub him off, before putting him in a cot. His clothes would have to be burned, nothing else for it. He would not be wearing them, anyway; the Circle usually sold the clothes mages came in, if they could be salvaged. Wynne had ordered a fresh set of robes sent up, Child Size 4.

The paperwork was as done as it could be. Wynne went to brew potions, while she waited for the child to wake up.

 

Alim gradually drifted into awareness, and the first thing he noticed was that this place smelled weird. Like herbs, the sort Mama gave you when you were sick. The next thing he noticed was that he could see again! Whatever the shemlen had been giving him, it made it so he couldn’t see properly, not more than a few inches from his face. The vague colors and shapes were still there, but everything else disappeared, all the stuff that told you what the shapes were and where you were.

Moving as little as possible, he looked around the room. There was someone not far away, he could tell, but no one was watching him. There was a cup on a table, and clothing on a chair—strange clothing. It looked like Chantry people clothing, but muddy grey. He realized that he was naked and clean, and then that his hair had been cut. His face was no longer sore, where Uncle Tarfen had put the mage-mark. He ran his hand over it; there were now faint, raised lines. What else had the shemlen done to him? Nothing, as far as he could tell. He got out of the cot, and sniffed the liquid in the cup. It did not smell like Templar medicine, so he drank it, because he was very thirsty. He wanted food, but there wasn’t any.

There were tight breeches in the pile of clothing, and a loose shirt. Alim discarded the robe, socks, and shoes, because it was very warm out. Besides, it would be easier to sneak away from the shemlen while barefoot.

He did not remember much of the last few weeks. He had been in a cart, and the Templar kept giving him the medicine that made him sleepy and made it so he couldn’t see. There had been another shemlen, once, who had let him sit in the front of the cart and kept trying to talk to him, but he had not understood most of the words. And then he had woken up, in a room made of stone. Maybe it was a Chantry, like the one in town. He had no idea where he was, but if he could get out of this place, maybe he could find out. He knew the town near where the clan lived was called ‘Lothering,’ so maybe he could ask someone to tell him which way to go. It was still summer, because the weather was still warm, so he could eat berries and stuff. The blackberries had just been getting ripe, when the shemlen stole him.

And still nobody was watching him. He could tell. He opened the door and headed toward the dark shape of the next one.

 

Wynne returned from the privy and ducked into the infirmary lab to check on the potions. Yes, the elfroot was ready for the concentrator agent. This took several minutes of stirring, and a few incantations. Then she went to check on the new kid again.

He was gone. The clothes were scattered all over the floor and some of them were missing, so hopefully he wasn’t also running around naked. This was still bad. The protocol was never to let a new apprentice wake up alone, if they were disoriented when they came in, because children often panicked when they realized that they were in a strange place and no one they knew was with them. There were any number of dangerous things in the infirmary that a child might poke at without knowing, too, and this one was old enough to make a serious escape attempt, if he had a mind to.

Wynne searched the infirmary, hoping the boy was a calm child and just curious about his surroundings. When she had confirmed he was definitely gone, she ran out into the hall and called for the nearest Templar.

 

It had been easy enough to sneak past the first bad shemlen. Alim knew he was bad, because he looked bad. Everything in this strange place was very bright, practically glowing. He wasn’t sure if he liked it. The shemlen walked up and down the hallway, and Alim hid behind a statue until the shemlen walked past, then ran on tiptoes in the other direction. He found a staircase and went down. Down was probably out.

There were more bad shemlen on this floor, but he could tell where they were, and he hid behind statues and the weird cloth that hung from the walls, so they didn’t see him. There was another staircase, and he was almost to it (walking calmly, to avoid being noticed) when the shouting began.

He could not understand much of the shouting, but he heard the words ‘elf’ and ‘there’ and heard a whole lot of Bad Shemlen Boots running, and realized they were probably chasing him. He began to run, down the stairs and through the door at the bottom, into a room and then a second room full of people and enormous shelves.

There were more bad shemlen there, too, and several of them blocked the door out, in front of him. Several more burst through the door behind him, clanking. Alim did the only thing that seemed to make any sense, and grabbed onto one of the shelves and climbed up.

 

Wynne decided that this was officially a bad day. New apprentices often behaved erratically, but this one was definitely more…creative than most. And in the library, too, on a study day. At least half the tower was in this room, and now there was a child in his underwear perched on top of a bookcase like a spooked cat. A terrified child with little or no control over his magic; what had he manifested? The templar who brought him had not known for sure. Wynne prayed it wasn’t fire. She was pretty sure she could reach up there with an anti-magic blast, but only if the Templars didn’t accidentally wipe out her own magic, first. Fire. Library. This could be very bad.

The Templars also seemed to have no idea what to do. They all just stared at the boy, uncertainly, until Greagoir and Irving walked into the room.

“Well, what are you lot doing?” Greagoir asked the seventeen assorted Templars in the room.

“He’s up there. We’re not entirely sure what to do.”

“Well, then, get him down, one of you.”

After some murmured discussion, one of the youngest Templars—Ser Drass, she thought—began unbuckling some of his armor, presumably to climb better. Choosing a corner where two shelves met, he started to climb up, muttering some distinctly impious things under his breath.

 

Alim was at a loss. The shelves did go all the way across the room, but there were bad shemlen guarding the doors at both ends, and if he climbed down, they would get him. The windows were far higher than the shelves, and looked too narrow, anyway. He huddled on the dusty, dark wood, and prayed that no one could see him. He remembered that he was very hungry.

The shelf he was on shook. Alim peered over the edge. One of the bad shemlen was climbing up!

Maybe he could scare it away. Mama said never to hiss at shemlen, no matter how annoying they were, but this was an emergency. Alim opened his mouth and made the worst noise he was capable of.

 

It was a noise like a gigantic cat. A cat the size of an elven child, if you will. It filled the library, and several Templars and mages started yelling about abominations. Ser Drass almost fell off the bookshelf, but kept climbing.

“Not an abomination!” yelled an elven apprentice named Eadric. “Elves can make noises like that. It’s just we don’t usually because it’s bad manners.”

This was unfortunately a bit too late to stop the smites.

 

It felt like something hit him, only just inside his head, and suddenly once more he could not see properly. Alim could feel through the shelf that the bad shemlen was still climbing. He began feeling around for something to defend himself with, hissing loudly all the while.

Books. Those were books, on the top shelf. Alim pried one out, and dropped it in the general direction of the smear that was the bad shemlen. Then another one. He wasn’t entirely certain, but he was pretty sure that “fuckdammit” was a bad word in Shemlen.

That would mean the books were working. He threw more books.

He could see again, now, but the bad shemlen was almost at the top. He tried hitting its fingers with a book. It did not work. Squinting, he saw that the shemlen was wearing metal gloves. That just wasn’t fair. Then the shemlen pulled itself onto the top of the shelf and tried to grab him!

Alim thrashed and flailed, and stopped hissing and started screaming.

“Put me down! Put me down! You’re a bad poopyhead! You _fuckdammit!_ Put me doooowwwn! I want to go hooooome! Put me down put me down let go!”

 

The bookcase, which had never been meant for this, began to wobble as Drass reached the top.

“Out of the stacks, everyone!” yelled Wynne, as it swayed more and more dangerously. Pretty much everybody was already watching the show, anyway. The kid struggled out of Drass’s arms, still screaming in a language Wynne could not place, and Drass lunged after him. The shelf finally tipped, launching them toward the floor.

Wynne had a barrier spell ready to catch them, but before she could cast it, a giant shield bubble shimmered out around the kid, catching both him and Drass within it. Maker, that had to be fifteen feet across! That settled the question of what the kid had manifested, then, she thought distantly, as the thudding of books and bookcases settled. The first shelf had landed across the shield bubble, but stopped there.

“Where are the force mages?” she asked, as soon as she thought she could be heard. “I don’t know how long that child can keep his spell up.”

The shelf was removed just before the bubble flickered out. The child had passed out, and so they had to carry him back up to the infirmary. This time, Greagoir ordered that two Templars guard the Quarantine Room at all times for as long as the child was in it.

“Remind me why I became a Templar?” she heard Ser Drass say.

 

It was soon discovered that the boy did not speak any known language, or at least, none known to anyone in Kinloch Hold. He recognized a few words in several of them, but his own speech was something different from what anyone else knew. At least he was talking. That was a good sign.

Wynne tried Trade, and then Orlesian, and then when that failed, Tevene. She figured out that the boy’s name was “Alim,” and his last name might be something like “Surana,” but little else. Enchanter Uldred had studied Nevarran, so she brought him in, despite his grumbling, but that failed as well. Wynne posted signs in the dining hall and the library (still in shambles) requesting that anyone knowing any language other than Trade, Orlesian, Tevene, or Nevarran please come to the infirmary as soon as possible. If the boy’s language were the primary language of any Chantry circle, it would be best for his education to send him there, after all.

“I don’t really speak Ander,” protested Anders, when Wynne pulled him aside after Advanced Creationism. “My mum does. She only spoke it when Father wasn’t in earshot. I only picked up the words for stuff around the house, and I’ve forgotten half of it.”

“You don’t need to speak it well, just tell if someone’s speaking it. What class do you have next?”

“Fade Studies, with Irving.”

“I’ll write you a pass to get out of half of it.”

“…Okay then.”

Advanced Creationism was a small enough class to be held in the infirmary itself. Wynne led Anders to the Quarantine Room at the back, past the Templars.

Anders thought the boy within looked considerably less intimidating than he had in the library the other day. (And that was a piece of mayhem he had to congratulate him for, someday. He’d never even thought of trying that.) The tiny elf was wearing a regular circle robe, now, and he looked like he had been crying.

Anders cleared his throat. “Sprichst du Fellsprache?”

It appeared that the child did not.

 

In the end, they all decided it must be some alienage dialect of Orlesian. None of the mages at Kinloch Hold had grown up in an Orlesian alienage, but Alim would have to learn to speak Trade, anyway, so it was not worth sending him to or transferring someone in from Montsimmard or the White Spire. He was still small enough for the younger children’s dormitory, so Wynne had him placed there, once the two weeks’ quarantine was up.

It was not the first time they had gotten a child who could not speak Trade. This one would simply be a bit more of a challenge than most. Enchanter Leorah already had a set of spell-resistant flashcards. He would be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr at [sanguinifex.tumblr.com!](https://sanguinifex.tumblr.com) My complete contact info post is [here.](https://sanguinifex2.tumblr.com)
> 
> Special thanks to [Rosehip](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosehip) for commissioning the chapter "Stolen"!


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